


and if i called to you in my hour of need (would you still come running back to me)

by nicole_writes



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: "We love each other but we didn't want to give up our dreams for that", F/M, Light Angst, Melancholy, No Beta, Post-Blue Lions Route (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Post-Canon, implied exes, reconnecting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-13
Updated: 2021-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-20 19:54:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30010110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nicole_writes/pseuds/nicole_writes
Summary: Ingrid is smiling at him, her green eyes just slightly wrinkled in the corners. It’s a small smile, just a slight upturn of her lips, but the mirth in her gaze betrays her true excitement. It is clear that she is happy to be here.Sylvain is happy to see her. He is always happy to see Ingrid. He just wishes that the circumstances were different.“Hello, Margrave,” Ingrid says.—in which sylvain and ingrid have been apart for a while, pursuing different things.
Relationships: Ingrid Brandl Galatea/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Comments: 13
Kudos: 29





	and if i called to you in my hour of need (would you still come running back to me)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [paperpenpal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/paperpenpal/gifts).



> for mish because her fic finally gave me a way to end this idea I've had for a while that i didn't hate.

Every Gautier winter looks the same. Snow blankets across the ground, bathing the world in a white glow that sparkles on sunny days as ice crystals reflect and refract light. What few deciduous trees they have shed their leaves in the fall and gather ice and snow as the winter sets in. The larger evergreen trees bow under the weight of snow and ice, but they remain pillars of the horizon, marking out long-buried trails. 

Sylvain stands at the gate of Castle Gautier and squints into the white and blue skies. Today, clouds obscure the mostly blue sky, but it hasn’t yet started snowing. It’s not foggy either, which is a relief. Low visibility can be deadly for flyers. If it was foggy, the arrival of Knights would probably be delayed _yet again_. They’re already four days late because of the storm that had just rolled through, but if the weather holds today, they should be able to complete the last leg of their journey. 

Sylvain has been periodically checking the skies all day. It’s almost mid-afternoon now and he’s not sure how much longer he can put off the ever-growing stack of paperwork on his desk to wait out here. A sharp wind stings his face and he buries his chin into the scarf wrapped tightly around his neck. He’s not sure how much longer he _wants_ to wait out here.

Thankfully, a grey dot emerges from a cloud in the distance. It is followed by the appearance of a dozen more specks which only grow in size as they approach. Soon enough, they blossom into pegasus-sized blobs that are more like what he has been expecting. 

Sylvain cannot help the smile that curls up the edges of his lips. He rocks onto his toes and then back onto his heels like an excited child. It has been a long time since he has had visitors. It has been even longer since he has had visitors that he is actually excited to see. 

The pegasi in the sky fly in a perfect formation, even as they begin to descend, coming to land in the spacious courtyard of Castle Gautier. As soon as the first rider touches down, Sylvain starts crossing the yard towards them. He trudges through ankle-deep snow, ignoring how it soaks through his pants and his boots until he stands a dozen feet from the lead rider. 

The rider swings down off of her pegasus with a grace that informs onlookers of her years of experience. She is dressed in the blue and silver decorations befitting Fhirdiad’s finest knights and her helm is that of the commander of this battalion. 

Sylvain does not close the distance between them as he watches her. Uncertainness, something he doesn’t feel often, anchors his feet to the ground, pulling him to a stop. He does not raise a hand to her, nor utter a word as she pulls off her helm and tucks it under her arm. 

Her cheeks are stained pink from the whipping winds that winter flying brings and her blonde hair is neatly braided down her back. It’s not long like it used to be when they were teenagers, but neither is it the short, rebellious cut she had worn during the war. Now, it looks more like she had been trying to keep it short but has simply neglected to trim it recently. 

With her free hand, Sylvain watches her pat the neck of her faithful partner, and then she turns to face him. Their eyes lock and his heart twists in his chest. Ingrid’s lips part, her green eyes twinkle, and then her helmet drops into the snow with a wet thud. He hardly has time to brace himself before she practically leaps into him, throwing her arms around his neck. 

Sylvain manages to hug her back, looping his arms around her. Her waist is slender, but her armour adds bulk to her frame as her breastplate digs into his shoulder. Ingrid tries to lean back her left gauntlet snags on the fabric of her cloak, preventing her from moving back for a moment. She wiggles against him until she pries the fabric free, and then Sylvain releases her so that she can step back. 

Ingrid is smiling at him, her green eyes just slightly wrinkled in the corners. It’s a small smile, just a slight upturn of her lips, but the mirth in her gaze betrays her true excitement. It is clear that she is happy to be here. 

Sylvain is happy to see her. He is always happy to see Ingrid. He just wishes that the circumstances were different. 

“Hello, Margrave,” Ingrid says. 

She sounds just like he remembers. Her cadence is even and smooth—as all trained nobles are taught—and her voice tickles something in his chest like a song that is familiar and comforting. It is nice to see her again. 

“Hello,” he replies calmly. “How was the flight?”

Ingrid shrugs. “I guess it went as well as we could have asked. The storm delay was frustrating, but I hope that we didn’t miss anything seriously important.”

He shakes his head. “No, don’t worry. I didn’t want to begin anything until you all had arrived anyway.”

That seems to confuse her. Her brow creases and she worries the edge of her bottom lip under her teeth as she thinks— _just like she used to_. “Why? We’re not here to contribute anything. It’s just supervision and it’s supervision that His Majesty thinks you should have. I doubt you actually need it.”

He breaks eye contact with her, glancing over her shoulder to where her battalion has all gathered with their mounts, armour, and travelling supplies. “We’ll say it’s for the presentation of a United Faerghus then,” Sylvain answers. 

Ingrid shifts crossing her arms. “You haven’t had any issues, have you?”

“No,” he assures. “It really was just for the ceremony of the whole thing, I promise.”

Ingrid is still frowning at him and Sylvain can feel the scrutiny in her gaze. This look, assessing and almost suspicious, is one that Sylvain had used to be intimately familiar with. In their youth, it felt like it was the only way that Ingrid had ever looked at him. Of course, with time, that had changed, but a lot of things have changed recently. 

Before Ingrid can press him further, one of her knights approaches her. The woman clears her throat. “Lady Galatea,” she interrupts, “we should move our mounts to stables if the Margrave can provide us with those spaces.”

Sylvain nods immediately. “Of course. And I’m sure you’ve all had very long days and would like to get out of the cold yourselves.” He turns towards the main castle and waves over a group of Gautier stablehands that had been hovering, waiting for their summons. “We can continue this conversation where we’re not all in danger of losing our noses to the cold.”

The knight that interrupted seems satisfied with this and she jogs back towards her pegasus, leaving Sylvain and Ingrid alone again. Sylvain takes advantage of the situation as he steps around Ingrid, moving towards Windshear, her pegasus. The crunch of his boots through the snow sounds deafening to him, even as he bends over to pick up her discarded helm. 

He uses his coat’s sleeve to brush aside the ice crystals that cling to the metal and then he turns, holding it out to Ingrid. She hasn’t moved towards him again, but her frown has deepened. Sylvain’s heart sinks. The chasm between them—one fostered by time and distance—seems to be spreading wider and deeper, reminding them both that many things have changed since they’d last seen each other. 

Ingrid takes the helmet with both hands and holds it in front of her body. “Thanks,” she says quietly. 

“Sure,” Sylvain mumbles. “Least I can do.” 

The joy of reunion is fading quickly, leaving the lingered regrets from their previous meeting hanging in the frigid winter air. 

“We should get inside,” he suggests. “It’ll probably do us all good to be out of the cold.” 

Ingrid’s lips press together like she wants to say something else, but he turns away before she gets the chance. A sense of dread and uncertainty settles in his stomach like a rock—heavy and uncomfortable. 

* * *

Sylvain makes it through the afternoon and evening without hardly speaking to Ingrid. It helps that she’s busy enough coordinating her battalion, she doesn’t really have time to seek him out as the evening passes. Sylvain plays host to the best of his abilities but it is times like these that he is horribly aware of the expectations of a man of his position. 

He should be married. He should have a wife with him to help with all of this. He shouldn’t be staring after the captain of one of Fhirdiad’s finest knight orders. 

He had lost that privilege a long time ago. 

Thankfully, the knights are tired and most of them retire early, leaving Sylvain to whole up in his study to get some work done. The documents on his desk are more frustrating than he likes to admit, and after a few hours, he resorts to pacing in front of the hearth, a drink in one hand and the other hand fisted in his hair in frustration.

He needs to think about land deeds and the treaty that he’ll be signing tomorrow, but instead, he is still thinking about the way that Ingrid had looked at him when she had flown into his arms. 

A knock at the door catches his attention, but before he can turn to dismiss whichever of his help has decided to bother him, the door clicks open. Sylvain spins then, dropping his hand, and stares as Ingrid slips into the room. They stand on opposite sides of the office, staring at each other for a moment.

With the fire behind him, Sylvain casts a shadow across the room that stretches across the stone floors and the decorative rug to halt at Ingrid’s feet. She doesn’t look down at it, choosing to hold his gaze instead. Sylvain’s hand tightens on his glass, almost uncomfortably. 

“Ingrid,” he says quietly. “What are you doing here?”

She takes a step closer. “We didn’t really get to talk earlier,” she answers. “I was hoping we could talk now.” Her gaze flickers to his desk. “As long as you’re not busy.”

Sylvain shakes his head. “No,” he says hurriedly. The word rushes out of him with a burst of air, leaving him breathless as he stares at her. “Never too busy for you.”

That draws the corner of her lips into a melancholic smile. She creeps closer and this time he steps to meet her until they stand together in the middle of the rug that had been his father’s. Sylvain has never cared enough to replace it.

Ingrid’s eyes drift down then, landing on the half-full glass he is holding and Sylvain realizes that he’s being rude. He turns to his desk where his decanter sits next to an extra glass.

“Drink?” he offers.

“Sure.”

He pours her a glass and tops up his own before turning back to her. She takes the offered glass and taps it lightly against his.

“Cheers,” she murmurs.

Sylvain nods and takes a sip. The alcohol burns when it goes down, but it warms the churning pit in his stomach all the same. Ingrid matches him and he is fondly reminded of her famous appetite. It appears not everything has changed.

“You haven’t been to Fhirdiad in a while,” Ingrid comments. Her wrist tilts and she swirls the dark amber liquid in a slow cycle in her glass.

Sylvain presses his lips together and leans against his desk. He extends his legs out, crossing them at the ankles, and ponders her comment. She’s not wrong. He hasn’t been back to the capital in over a year. He’s had other responsibilities here. He hasn’t had a lot of time to travel.

“I wasn’t sure,” he says carefully, “how welcome I would be if I did return.”

Ingrid blinks. It seems to take a moment for his comment to register but then disappointment flickers across her face. Her eyebrows lift and her mouth drags downward into a small frown. “Sylvain,” she says.

He takes another drink. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I should have come to visit.”

Ingrid lets out a heavy sigh. “You’re busy,” she points out. “We know that. Felix and Dimitri are busy too. They just have the benefit of being physically closer.”

Sylvain forces out a chuckle. It comes out more like a sharp exhale. “Distance isn’t the only reason I didn’t come, Ingrid.” He holds eye contact with her for a moment, trying to read what she’s feeling.

She looks down and her chest trembles with a shaky breath. “I never meant to keep you away, Sylvain,” she says quietly. “I didn’t want you to leave.”

“I wouldn’t have blamed you if you did,” Sylvain murmurs in response.

She shakes her head but still doesn’t make eye contact with him again. “No, Sylvain, that’s not fair.”

He rests his glass against his leg, watching her. He could keep apologizing, but he has a feeling that that won’t help this situation at all. This conversation is like shouting across the chasm. The space between them feels impossibly large and it seems like their words are getting lost in the wind, leaving only visual cues to betray the truth of how they’re feeling.

Ingrid finally looks up and her cheeks flush pink when she catches him staring. Sylvain blinks slowly as Ingrid bites her bottom lip. This particular flustered look is one that he likes on her. It looks younger and it reminds him of when things were easy. It reminds him of stolen moments during lazy mornings in a small Fhirdiad townhouse. It reminds him of when he could loop his arms around her or run his fingers through her hair or press his face to the crook of her neck and breathe her in.

“Do you ever think about it?” Sylvain asks quietly.

“I do,” Ingrid says. “More than I thought I would.”

He gives her a small smile. “I do too.” He taps his thumbnail against his glass and it clinks softly. “It would have been nice,” he says. “It would have been easy.”

That draws a short laugh out of her. “Maybe,” she agrees. “But neither of us wanted easy.”

“I would have wanted it if you did,” he says. He’s not sure what compels him to admit it. Maybe it’s the way that she looks, golden half-lit by the fire. Maybe it’s the alcohol’s warmth finally overwhelming the uncertainty he has been plagued by since he heard she was coming.

Ingrid’s breath hitches—a tiny, short inhale that he barely catches of the crackle of the hearth. “I did want it,” she confesses. Her voice is small and carries the tiniest tremor of uncertainty. “I wanted it so much, Sylvain. But I couldn’t.”

It’s the same line that they had drawn just over a year ago now. He had offered to stay—for her—but she had told him to go. Gautier needed a strong leader and Ingrid had her responsibilities in Fhirdiad. He never once thought to ask her to come with him. He would never have put that on her, but he had offered to stay.

And Ingrid had told him to go.

It isn’t because she doesn’t love him. He knows that it’s quite the opposite, actually. Rather, it’s because she had loved him enough to let him go. And he loved her enough to do the same.

“I know,” he says simply. “I couldn’t either.”

She steps closer until the toes of her boots are almost brushing against his crossed feet. Sylvain places his glass down and stands up, closing the distance between them. Up close he can see the faint glow of her skin that all of her outdoor work and training has brought her. He can see the pink that blooms under her cheekbones and the thistles of grey in her green irises.

“I’ve missed you,” he continues. “A lot, Ingrid.”

He can feel the warmth of her breath as she exhales. Her eyelashes flutter as she looks down. “I missed you too, Sylvain.”

He wants to kiss her. He wants to kiss her forehead and her nose and her cheeks. And her lips to see if they are still chapped like they used to be. But they are not _that_ anymore and it would be unfair of him to try.

Instead, he takes her half-empty glass and puts it down. Then, he draws her into a hug, curling his arms around her waist and letting his hands rest on her back. Ingrid breathes out deeply, her head resting against his shoulder as she lets her arms settle on his chest between them. She rises and falls against him as he breathes slowly.

“I missed you,” he says again. _I love you_ , he doesn’t say.


End file.
